Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

Carvajal arrived in Gelsenkirchen before five o’clock.

He’d booked the first available flight the moment he’d hung up with Raúl, which meant he’d spent the journey in the kind of restless anticipation that he hadn’t felt about a new client in years. Most of his roster these days was logistics rather than discovery — players he’d represented for a decade, contracts that renewed themselves through habit and trust rather than negotiation. Finding a genuine, raw talent through a midnight phone call from an old friend, rather than a glossy scouting report, was a rarity these days.

Raúl was waiting at the airport to pick him up himself.

”He’s not what you’re expecting,” Raúl muttered as they navigated the traffic.

”What exactly am I expecting?” Carvajal asked, glancing over.

”I don’t know. Just... whatever picture you have in your head right now, throw it out.”

Carvajal didn’t really get what he meant until they pulled up to the academy dorms. Moments later, he was standing in a sterile, white corridor that smelled faintly of industrial floor cleaner, waiting outside a door with peeling paint. It felt bizarre — he was about to pitch himself to a seventeen-year-old who had just torn a Bundesliga defense to shreds.

The door swung open. Mateo stood there, looking between the two of them — Raúl, and a tired-looking older man in a slightly rumpled travel suit, clutching a leather folder.

”Mateo, this is Carvajal,” Raúl said, getting straight to the point. ”My agent. He wanted to chat with you. I also reached out to Mendes — he said he’s on his way, too.” Raúl took a step back toward the stairwell. ”I’m gonna go catch him at the station. You two talk.”

He disappeared down the hall before Mateo could even get a word in. Mateo had to respect the move; it was Raúl’s classic way of making sure he didn’t look like he was forcing his own guy onto him.

”Mr. Silva,” Carvajal said, extending his hand. He sounded a bit formal, a little unsure of himself. ”Thanks for taking the time on such short notice.”

”Come on in,” Mateo said, stepping aside to let him through.

The room was, by any reasonable European football standard, not what represented a rising Bundesliga talent.

Carvajal took this in without comment — the single bed, the desk, with a few items of clothing. He’d represented Real Madrid players for two decades. He’d been in penthouse apartments and private training compounds. This was, by a significant margin, the most modest space he’d ever conducted a client meeting in.

He found it, against his own expectations, somewhat reassuring.

”I won’t take up too much of your time,” Carvajal said, waving off the offer of the single desk chair and choosing to stand near the door instead. ”I represent Raúl. Have for almost twenty years. Look, I’m not running the biggest agency in Europe — I want to be completely upfront about that, because you’ll hear it from someone else if I don’t say it myself.”

Mateo just listened, leaning back against the edge of his bed.

”But what I can tell you is this: in twenty years with Raúl, we’ve never had a single serious blowout. I take a ten percent cut, which is on the lower side for this business. I handle the contract tweaks, the day-to-day logistics, and the commercial filtering, basically so you don’t have random people walking into your room uninvited.” He flashed a faint, dry smile. ”Though clearly that’s already happening regardless.”

”True,” Mateo said, a small smirk tugging at his mouth.

”I’m not going to promise you a move to a massive club by January. I’m not promising anything specific yet, because frankly, I don’t know what it is you actually want out of your career. To me, that’s the first question we need to answer, not the last.” He paused, adjusting his jacket. ”Whatever you decide, my number is on this.”

He slid a business card onto the desk. He politely declined when Mateo offered him a bottle of water — Carvajal seemed to notice there was only one left in the room and didn’t want to take it, moving past the moment without making it weird.

He was out the door within ten minutes of arriving, completely skipping the heavy sales pitch.

Mateo watched the door click shut. He hadn’t meant to make up his mind so quickly, but as he looked at the little card on his desk, he realized he already liked the guy.

Mendes’s invitation arrived by phone an hour later. There was already a black car idling by the academy gates, and a table reserved at what Raúl’s text described as the best restaurant in Gelsenkirchen.

Mateo went mostly because saying no felt like it would take more energy than just showing up, and partly out of a quiet curiosity. The restaurant was the kind of place that announced how expensive it was through the massive, whispering distance between the tables rather than the prices on the menu.

Mendes stood up the second Mateo was shown into the private room. He was younger than Mateo had pictured, impeccably tailored, and practically vibrating with the intense energy of a man who built an empire on pure hustle rather than patience.

”Mateo.” He didn’t even wait for the greetings to settle before diving in. ”Your talent is being completely wasted at a club like Schalke. You see that, right? A team that hasn’t won anything real in decades — that is not where a player of your caliber belongs.”

Mateo just sat down, keeping his face neutral.

”A massive club is your actual home,” Mendes went on, gesturing with a hand. ”Real Madrid. Barcelona. With me, either one is on the table. I can have that deal locked in before the winter window even closes.”

The food arrived — some high-end dish that Mateo ate without really tasting it. To him, the meal was just fuel; the conversation was the actual event.

”Look at your situation right now,” Mendes said, leaning over the table, his eyes locked on Mateo. ”Your contract is your biggest weapon. Do not renew a single thing. By January, I’ll have you at a European giant with a signing bonus that will change your life forever. From there, we build your brand — global markets, full control of your image rights, a whole structure to make your career bigger than just football.”

Mateo just listened.

But as Mendes kept going, pivoting through different versions of the exact same pitch, Mateo noticed what was missing. Not once did Mendes ask what he actually wanted. He hadn’t asked what mattered to him over the next two years, whether he cared more about guaranteed minutes, his tactical development, or just regular playing time. The entire pitch was a pre-made blueprint that existed completely independent person it was supposedly for.

”Mr. Mendes,” Mateo said, cutting in the moment the man paused to take a breath. ”Thanks for the dinner. But I have an early training session in the morning.”

He stood up.

Mendes stared at him, looking genuinely thrown off. It was the look of a man who had built a billionaire lifestyle on being impossible to say no to, suddenly realizing a seventeen-year-old was walking out on him.

”Mateo—”

”I’ll think about what you said.”

Mateo didn’t wait for the comeback. He turned, walked out of the private room, moved past the quiet tables, and was breathing in the crisp night air on the street before he even fully processed what he’d done.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialed the number on the little card.

”It’s Mateo. Are you still in town?”

A brief pause on the line, and then Carvajal’s voice came through, sounding a bit caught off guard but smoothing over instantly. ”Yeah, I am. Is everything okay?”

”Let’s sign the contract,” Mateo said.

Plz Drop Some Power Stones.

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